A Sky The Colour Of Bones
by bagheera
Summary: The fall of Belial, Astaroth and Asmodeus. The circumstances and reasons for their change of sides. BelialXLucifer AsmodeusXBelial AstarothXRaphael LuciferXAstaroth)
1. A Sky The Colour Of Bones

Warning: Blasphemy ahead. And I mean it. Violence, dark themes, and gore, but nothing too horrible. Religious themes. MAJOR SPOILERS! (Especially for Volume 14 and 17) Mentioning of m/f pairings, not too graphic m/m pairings and whatever you'd call pairings the Mad Hatter is involved in ;)  
  
Summary: The fall of Belial, Astaroth and Asmodeus. Why did they change sides? How did they fall? And what did the War do to Archangels Michael and Raphael?  
  
1 A sky the colour of bones  
  
A sky with the colour of bones.  
  
A sickly grey sky , filling the vastness above.  
  
Above the blue sky is heaven. And above heaven the sky is the colour of bones. The air is blazing with a white heat. A chalky sun at its zenith, immovable. The feathered corpses of angels are rotting in the sunshine. Fallen and not fallen alike - when dead, they're rotting. Death. The supreme force. The only force superior to the devil. The Devil. That's what they call him now. The great enemy. The one defying God, the glorious Morning Star. Oh, to trade his subtle light with this cruel, all consuming sun.  
  
Three men, or rather, three Angels, for one of them is still hesitating to become one or the other gender, are looking over the vast expanse of the plateau. The armies have fought, the armies are gone. Only death still lingers, death and those three.  
  
The first one is strong and imposing, a man of heavy, powerful built, but he is bearing his power with such nonchalance, such slackness, that it is corrupted. He sits on the naked stones of a crumbled wall as if it was no less than the lush cushions of the noblest place in Heaven, lounging he is, languidly smoking a very aristocratic pipe - even though neither pipes nor aristocracies have yet been invented by humans. His hair and eyes are inky, his looks are heavy lidded. He is showing the first lines of untimely age.  
  
His name is Asmodeus. You can see that he has not dirtied his manicured hands with idle warfare. There are better things in life than slay and slaughter, aren't there?  
  
The second one would not agree. He is standing in the shadows, leaning against a crooked beam, shielding his icy beauty from the harsh rays of light. His left arm his hanging down, his gloved fingers clutching a bloody axe by far too heavy for his lithe frame. A mane of hair, the colour of murder, of passion, is falling around him, his young face twisted into a sneer. He seems no older than sixteen, but to only thing that still reminds of childhood is that cruel carelessness towards all living beings that children sometimes show. His eyes are the reflections from icicles.  
  
His name is Astaroth and he is feared everywhere in heaven. His hands are redder than even his hair from the blood that they spilt in random carnage.  
  
The third one, the one without gender, is sitting in the sun, painted lips smiling a shrewd smile, wicked blue eyes searching the sky. Call me worthless, they dare him. But I am here. But you created me. Look. Look at me! Outrageous red curls are flying openly in the dusty breeze. Oh, this one does not fear the light of day. A tan is never bad, isn't it? Marble legs are bare, shameless. Asmodeus' appreciating looks are noticed and the legs are spread a little more openly. But the smoking man is not a real challenge. His corruptness is legendary.  
  
He is at the moment rather a she, she decides merrily. Perhaps, of those three, she is the least tainted. Yes, she is committing sins in abundance, but still... her defiance is the boldness of a child. She is wild, she has not yet found her master. She feels resentment towards her God, but she still craves his attention.  
  
Her name is Belial, and of course she'd never ever use brutal force. Why, when there's tricks and treachery?  
  
The three are looking over the plateau. The war is not over. It is just pausing, preparing for another battle. They are faintly interested, those three, but not in its outcome. For that, they couldn't care less. No, the darkness, the sin that war represents fascinates them. But neither party has their sympathies. Not just yet.  
  
God has never been their master, that is what they clearly feel. Maybe he had created them, had their fates already decided for them. But they are free. Freedom is their fairest illusion. Their loveliest dream.  
  
"What a giant waste of time," Asmodeus drawls beneath his pipe. Belial laughs airily. Astaroth is silent. He is mostly silent when there is nothing cruel to say. Right now, slaughtered corpses speak for themselves.  
  
"And what for? What for, I ask you!" Asmodeus shakes his head. "All those stupid angels could be enjoying their lives right now. Amusement is the only thing that is real." He smiles. Well, he is certainly enjoying himself.  
  
"Well, some people seem to have other ideas about what kind of 'amusement' suits them, don't they, Astaroth?" Belial asks playfully. The boy's axe scratches the concrete, mixing blood with dust. The scraping and the silent melody of a lonely breeze are blending perfectly with the silence.  
  
"Pain. Pain is real."  
  
"There you have it, Asmodeus," she grins. "Pain is amusement and amusement is real. What is there to add? Let's have fun!"  
  
She looks around, and after some minutes in silence she pouts a little, then bounces to her feet and danced along the little wall Asmodeus is sprawled on. He watches her with appreciation. She isn't even a woman. Not even a man! What is there to be appreciated? There is a butterfly, dancing before his eyes.  
  
She comes closer, she bewitches him with her perfect, genderless thighs, her porcelain skin, her fluttering fingers, her lashes... "Amusement," she whispers huskily. The magic word. His heavy, lazy fingers wander over her back, trying to draw her closer. She evades him, volatile as ever. She laughs.  
  
"Come on, Astaroth. Move your gorgeous little butt. I want to go. This is more than boring!" she commands. And they slowly, unhurriedly make their way to their vehicle. Belial throws a last look around. Glittering, her eyes meet Asmodeus.  
  
"Did you ever wonder... what it's like? To be on his side...?"  
  
He shakes his head. "A gentleman never wonders, dear Belial," he says with a smile. "But I do," she whispers and a sly grin dances across her lips. 


	2. White World

Warning: This chapter has the most unusual pairing of Astaroth/Raphael. It's rather disturbing, though : violence, a lot of blood and non-con.  
  
***  
  
2 White World  
  
Gore. He wondered how much of it was actually the angel's own blood. No one, especially not a one so thin and lightly build, could ever bleed that much. But he was still breathing.  
  
"Out! All of you! Out! I need to concentrate!"  
  
The Archangel Raphael shooed them out and slammed the doors shut. This one needed his full attention. He bent over the angel's stretch, inspecting his face. It was the only part of him that wasn't sliced into pieces from the battles. Still, the crimson liquid painted the features of the young angel. He looked no older than the Wind Angel himself, about sixteen, and his unconscious features appeared pure and innocent.  
  
He was extraordinarily beautiful, the face of an elegant doll, the blood- laced lashes long and feathery, arched brows and high cheekbones. The face of a prince, framed in silky crimson strands of long, long hair.  
  
Raphael raised his hands and fulfilled his duty, healed the angel from his otherwise fatal wounds. They closed and the flesh was unmarred. Still, there was blood all over. He considered calling a nurse. There were other wounded soldiers from the ongoing battles. He needn't carry out these lesser tasks himself.  
  
But instead he took a basin of fresh, rose-scented antiseptic water and a towel and slowly, carefully started washing the soiled angel. The water, already smelling of roses, took on the colour of roses as well, as it ran over the skin in bloody droplets. He unbuttoned the torn uniform and discarded it. Underneath the coating of blood a skin the colour of snow showed. It was cold, too...  
  
Raphael felt watched. He looked around. The ward was empty. Of course. No one was watching him. No one was sneaking behind his back. But still... ever since that woman, that monster, that abnormality.. had touched him with her tainted lips, her hands, he could not help it. They were there, always, always, behind his back, inside his head, pointing at him, whispering.  
  
The Archangel Raphael had always been a virtuous, perfect angel. His healing abilities and his model life and work had brought him admiration from many angels. Of the four Elements he was at that time the second most loved, only Jibrill was more favoured by the angels. He had never questioned his existence. He had loved God, he had loved Heaven, he had loved life, whose guardian he was, whose healer. And then, he had met her. Belial...  
  
From the first moment on, the first glimpse he had got of that woman, he had felt insecure. She was only a woman, inferior to him by Heavens holy rules - yet he felt humiliated. And then... he had seen 'it'. Two Angels, one of them Belial, committing the sin. The sin of all sins, the original sin , beneath the ever-watching, uncaring eyes of God. Why didn't he interfere? Why was this possible? And why... felt he so afraid of himself?  
  
He was an angel. Pure. Innocent. Chaste.  
  
She was an angel. Spoiled. Desecrated. Impure.  
  
Where was the difference? Why had she become like this? What kept him from becoming her?  
  
He should leave. His work was done. Why was he lingering? This angel was no one he knew, he was unimportant...  
  
Beauty... yes, you dreadful woman... he is beautiful. He is beautiful because of his purity. Pure... pure beings... we are pure... you are nothing... he winced and wanted to curl into a heap on the ground.  
  
The figure on the stretch stirred and raised his head. He took in his surroundings calmly, finding that he was not dead, as expected, but indeed in one of the hospitals of Heaven. Heaven still. He turned around. A boy was sitting next to his stretch, with pale blonde hair and a doctor's uniform. He was hiding his face in his hands, breathing shaggily, looking tense. Astaroth smiled. Pain...  
  
"Healer," he rasped, his voice the brittle hiss of a snake. Raphael raised his head in shocked surprise, looking young and innocent, with wet blue eyes. Spring sky met icicle stare.  
  
"I..." Raphael stammered. Quickly, Astaroth moved his right hand to cup his face and startle him into silence.  
  
"Hush... ," he rose from the covers, his bare body smelling of roses and coppery blood. "My name is Astaroth. And yours is...?" he asked with a chilly smile.  
  
"....Raphael.." the blonde angel gasped barely above his frantic breath. He felt glued to his seat like a little animal staring into a snake's eyes.  
  
"Raphael..." the name lingered on his tongue in a delightful sigh.  
  
Another arm wrapped around Raphael's rigid shoulders, pressing him close to the cold body. His eyes widened in fear.  
  
"Thank you... my saviour..." the hissing voice muttered into his ears and a fist crashed into his back in a skull-shattering blow. The air was knocked out of him, and before he was able to even so much as gasp, he was pushed on the ground, slithering over the white tiles. He crashed into a cupboard. Shards of cutting glass rained down on him.  
  
Astaroth swung his legs gracefully over the edge of the stretch, and with a swish of his hair stalked over to the angel on the floor. His boots clicked on the floor. Slowly he went down, sitting on his heels before the doctor, who was panting and bleeding from where the glass had cut him numerous times. Astaroth bend forward. He dipped a finger into the blood, smeared it on his lips, tasting it with a pleased sigh.  
  
"Sweet... so sweet... the last angelic innocence..."  
  
He pressed a kiss on the shivering pulse before him, flicking his tongue over the flesh, tasting fear, tasting delicious guilt. He edged a little closer, moving his weight from his heels to his hand, carefully and deliberately placed between Raphael's thighs, and rubbed his cheek against the bleeding skin. Raphael keened, flinching away. He was paralysed with horror, horror of the corruption he felt nearing, the corruption...  
  
Astaroth picked up a fistful of glass, slapping him with it. Raphael cried out, more in shock than in pain, and tried to scramble away, but he was straddled, held in place by a brilliantly smiling Astaroth.  
  
"Bleed... bleed for me my Angel...," and he sucked the torn lips, relishing the coppery taste of pain. A curtain of scarlet hair fell around them.  
  
Yellow, warm sunlight flowed into the ward through white starched linen curtains, painting small rectangular spaces of light onto the tiled floor. Everything was pure and shining white. White, white world...  
  
Raphael dared not make a sound.  
  
***  
  
Astaroth leaves the infirmary, closing the door behind him with a small 'click'. He wears a new uniform, his long hair braided into a unruly ponytail. A thin smile plays on his perfect lips, momentarily satisfied with the pain and fear he has left behind.  
  
The long corridors are full of hurrying nurses, calling doctors, hurt, wounded, dead people. The sound of his shoes on the black and white marble of the floor is drowned by the noise and he slips unnoticed through the doors, into the wide, magnificent gardens.  
  
Sunlight is dancing, golden, on perfect summer trees, green and gold, and glowing light, and singing birds and the humming and buzzing of hundreds of bees and butterflies, and underneath it all the soft whispering of a breeze in the long grass and the leaves. It smells of summer, of warm earth and of grass, and of flowers and of rain and of thousands of wonderful, everlasting dreams.  
  
He wanders aimlessly, but drawn deeper and deeper into the gardens, by some invisible force. The only thing that ever attracted Astaroth's hateful little soul is pain and death and violence. But now there was something else. Something nameless, something new, something powerful.  
  
Not even God was that powerful. God was far away, and faint, and he hated him with every fibre. He hated him as much as his sister and himself. But this thing was new, was drawing him closer like a magnet.  
  
And there, amidst the lush beauty, under the heavy emerald twigs and branches, in the high grass, stood cold and black and alien to heavenly brilliance, his new master. He was tall, ever so tall, and beautiful as ice and just as sharp. His tremendous black wings seemed to absorb the light and to emanate blackness in return.  
  
Astaroth came closer, entranced by the darkness and beauty and the promises of that frosty smile.  
  
"My master," he said simply as he kneeled before him, looking up to the dark figure.  
  
"My servant," said Lucifer. 


	3. Worthless

Warning: Nothing to bad... Lucifer swears , but not the worst words, as I am not a native speaker and probably don't even know the worst and unusual ones... heh.  
  
Worthless  
  
Michael stepped into the white halls. He had broken the windows, expecting to laugh at their angry faces, but there was no one. The rooms were deserted, empty. The corridors were silent, for once. The only people in the white beds were corpses.  
  
He shivered, feeling suddenly like a coward. He wanted to run away. Where were they? Did they all leave? Leave to fight? Was he the last one still here?  
  
He entered another room, wrapping his arms around his body. He felt so disgustingly small and lonely. His steps echoed on the white floor.  
  
He saw the body on the floor before he actually realised seeing it. He froze. Blonde hair, tangled over a bloodied face. Lips, open in a silent scream.  
  
Raphael lay in a little heap against a shattered glass cupboard. Bits of glass were on the white tiles, and blood and... other things... He was half naked, his clothes torn and dishevelled. He still breathed. Slowly he raised his head. He looked at Michael, with eyes that seemed to have lost all their colour, hollow and dead. His lips moved, but he made no sound. A single tear ran over his blood-crusted cheek. He seemed so small. So small...  
  
Michael ran.  
  
***  
  
"Master," she breathed in awe.  
  
"Disgusting. Vile. Filthy. Filthy whore!" The bitter, contemptuous words tasted sweet, so sweet, sounded like heavenly music in hear ears.  
  
"My master!"  
  
"Defiled! Cheap! Worthless! Worthless creature!"  
  
"Oh yes! My master! Call my name! Call me worthless!"  
  
Belial fell to the ground, bowing her head for the first time to any being in the universe. She reached for his feet, to touch them, kiss them in adoration, but was pushed away harshly.  
  
"Never! Never touch me!" Lucifer's fury was frostier than the deepest winter.  
  
She crouched before him. She sighed. "My master..."  
  
***  
  
Belial had found him. Finally. The one man who was worthy of her love. The single person in this world whom she could accept calling her 'worthless.' Yes, compared to him she was worthless. She was so low... and she would do her worst to be the lowest of them all, only to have him call her 'worthless' again.  
  
She had found the one being whose attention was more precious than God's.  
  
Belial had left everything behind, instantly. With only a hat and a coat she arrived at the army of the rebellious angels. He never even looked at her. Never so much as said her name. But she could wait. She had to earn his attention.  
  
The ranks of his army were full of angels of all kinds and orders, Powers and Thrones and Virtues, Angels and Archangels and Cherubim, even the high Seraphim. Some of them were horrible monsters, the outcome of 'God's experiments'. Some were just bored, disappointed with God and his followers. Some were fated by God himself to fall. Such as she herself. He had called her 'Worthless' and she had obeyed him.  
  
She found, under his most loyal and terrible followers, the young angel Astaroth. She had, before, considered him some kind of friend, although she had never seduced him, he was not her taste, too violent, too unpredictable, too corrupt already.  
  
But when she saw him, every feeling of sympathy was extinguished by a wave of jealousy. She cursed his arrogant little face, his cold, dull eyes - why him? He was nothing better than her...  
  
He sat at Lucifer's side, smiling as his master did. One of Lucifer's gloved hands stroked absently over his hair while listening to some report about the battles. A serpent was winding in Astaroth's lap. When the messenger had finished, Lucifer nodded and dismissed him. Belial retreated further into the shadows. She did not want to be seen. She didn't want creatures like Astaroth to see her love and jealousy.  
  
Lucifer's hand cupped Astaroth's chin and he leaned down from his throne, whispering something to him that made the boy smile. He rose to his feet, and Lucifer kissed him, on his lips, like a lover, his fingers gliding down his lean back. Then he dismissed him, too.  
  
Belial waited for him in the corridor.  
  
He was still carrying the serpent. A huge, elegant, deathly serpent, winding around his neck. A white serpent. Belial stepped into his way, keeping him from striding on. He looked annoyed. "What do you want?" he asked angrily.  
  
"My, my", Belial said sweetly. "All of a sudden little Astaroth feels all high and mighty, just because he's spreading his legs for our Lord like a woman..."  
  
"Out of my way, Worthless!" Astaroth hissed.  
  
"Lovely," Belial said and kissed the tip of the serpent's head.  
  
"Meet my sister," sneered Astaroth, pushing past her.  
  
Belial looked amused. She know that Astaroth was often talking about his 'sister', a sister that was supposedly his twin, fused with him at their birth and living only inside his mind, sharing his body. It was common consent that this was a delusion and the cause for Astaroth's extraordinary violence and cruelty.  
  
So now the sister was a snake. Why not? That was, until she saw him change. In the matter of a second he was a serpent himself, onyx scales this time, and before her stood a woman, wearing Astaroth's clothes. She looked exactly like Astaroth. She was Astaroth, only that she was not, because of her breasts, her voluptuous thighs, her scarlet lips. Her expression was uncharacteristically soft. No, she could not be Astaroth.  
  
What was that now? Had he turned into a woman just because she had called him one? How nice of him...  
  
"I am Astarte," the female Astaroth said with a pleasant smile. Belial bowed and lifted her hat to greet.  
  
"My name is Belial, pleased to meet you, Lady Astarte." She caressed the snake that was hissing furiously at her volatile white hands.  
  
"My brother doesn't like being a snake, does he," Astarte smiled. Belial laughed in understanding. So this was indeed his sister...! She took the curling animal from her hands, kissing it with malice, hoping that bastard would hate being kissed by her and twisted in around her little neck.  
  
"But I like you being a snake, Astaroth," she smirked. "You are so much more pleasant - and decorative, too." 


	4. A Matter Of Style

A lot of Asmodeus musings.. and the final battle between heaven and hell. Probably the last chapter. I like Asmodeus! He's a little sleazy and a little old compared with the rest of the angel Sanctuary cast. But he's got that English dandy style!  
  
Warnings: Hedonism and a lot of violence. And shameless quoting of Nietzsche (but at least it fits Angel Sanctuary...)  
  
Thank you for R&R  
  
**************************************************************************** **********  
  
4 A matter of style  
  
Cherubim Asmodeus was actually a minor judge in the high court of Heaven. But it was common knowledge that in his long time of service he never once had cared for his position. At the very bottom of his heart he despised the moral of Heaven. All rules were made by God, given to his followers but never being justified.  
  
Asmodeus had long ago realised it. He had pondered it for a short while. So God was almighty. He had created them as he wished. He had created them as beings whose strongest need was to live in pleasure. So what were they to do? Follow their nature, of course.  
  
He could accept that there were -maybe - Angels whose pleasure lay in pleasing God, lay in being pure and virtuous. But he had never come across such an Angel. Confronted with carnal need and material pleasures all those holy intents faltered. He had never once come a across an Angel who had not been corrupted - willingly or unwillingly.  
  
It was ever so ironic that his destiny was to be a judge in Heaven, defending the very rules he only felt contempt for.  
  
So Asmodeus devoted his life to 'earthly' pleasures. He loved all kinds of food and wine, he adored women, he delighted in gambling. (In fact, he had invented gambling. But that was only known to a few good friends...). He was a careful man, who avoided being caught by his own law very effectively. There were a few Angels whom he considered friends and congenial to himself. In those he trusted and confided his beliefs. For example Beelzebub, a Seraphim who surpassed even Asmodeus in his love for food and wine, but was by far to lazy and single-minded.  
  
Among those who recently had taken to attend to his private meetings - which might have been called orgies by a more critical mind - where young Astaroth and the beautiful Belial. While Astaroth was a rather unwelcome guest - he usually sat down, looked beautiful but scary, and said nothing, and if he said something, it was just as scary as him saying nothing at all - Belial was the star and centre of all parties.  
  
First of all, she was a witty, sly and amusing person to talk to. The way she twisted words and senses, the way she confused you, bewitched you... Then she was pretty, just so wonderful to look at, with her wild, shining eyes, her flashy smile, her scarlet curls. She was embodied esprit. And she knew it. And she was proud of it.  
  
Many people thought she was puzzling, disturbing or even disgusting, because she was by far too old to still be androgynous. All Angels were born neither man nor woman, but it was usually decided pretty soon which gender one would become. But Belial still was 'hesitant'. But she had told him, quite openly, that she simply didn't want to become anything else.  
  
But most important of all reasons to love her was : she perfectly understood his way of life. She had long ago and on her own realised the importance of pleasure. She knew lust. She certainly knew how to amuse herself. He didn't need to teach her. In his eyes she was perfect. She was his own saint, to his own religion.  
***  
  
He looked at the Angel before him. He was very young still, and yet very corrupted. He had been accused of some trivial crime, stealing if he remembered correctly. He had been from the slums of heaven and simply hungry. He wouldn't have stood a chance before the high court, hadn't there been Asmodeus. Asmodeus had liked the boy's looks and had only sentenced him to a small penalty.  
  
The boy had been thankful and he had taken him to his house. It had not taken much to corrupt him. He was looking boyish and lithe, had watery blue eyes and a handsome pale face. Wearing a red wig, he was just perfect. Asmodeus stroked the soft skin, wanting to continue his day-dreaming.  
  
How disturbed had his routine of enjoying his life become. Once he had taken every woman and man he wanted as a lover, had been able to choose and had, for a short time, been able to adore each of them. Now, no one was really enough. Something was missing. Pleasure was beginning to feel shallow, shallow as the purity of prayer. For a very tiny moment he had doubted himself. Could it be that he had been wrong all the time? Was he craving God after all, not his fellows?  
  
But he was not. It was quite simple. It was not his love for God, but it was love. He, who had believed himself to have infinitely many hearts to give away, or no heart at all, had lost his heart in one tiny moment. The moment he had seen her first. His saint. Belial.  
  
He tilted the boy's chin, looked into his eyes, searching. No. His body was satisfied, but his mind, his soul... they yearned for another soft skin, another pair of blue eyes, another arch of painted lips.  
  
He stood. The boy was not understanding, but he didn't argue. He simply curled in the covers and smoked. Asmodeus walked to the window, watching the world beneath him. People were crowding. Armies, flying vehicles, weapons. The war was reaching its crucial point. The world had reached one of the darker valleys.  
  
The stench of smoke, of killing was creeping to his nose. He turned away, his eyes drifting over his luxurious home. His hand reached for an apple, juicy, red. He weighed it in his hand, its redness, its freshness, its sweet scent... he laid it away, untouched.  
  
Maybe it was really quite simple after all...  
  
He went for his clothes. He took his favourite ones, black of course, and elegant and decadent. He took his hat. He took his walking stick. He send his room another wistful glance. But still... it was really quite easy to decide.  
  
***  
  
The forces of Heaven were in high disadvantage. Lucifel's followers had been few in the beginning, but now his army seemed to have multiplied. Thousands and thousands of angry, rebellious Angels, of horrible monsters and creatures of pure darkness. His spawns.  
  
The forces of Heaven were powerless when it came to Lucifel. No one could fight him. He needed no more than his little finger to kill them all. They had lost all courage. They were beginning to lose their belief as well. Asmodeus could only sneer at them, as he walked between the soldiers. The rules were nothing. The love of God was nothing. Their purity was nothing. Their faith was weak. So weak that it needed only one Angel, a single rebellious Angel to make them crumble.  
  
He walked to the high Angels, the leaders. Many of them knew him, disapproved his way of life. Many of them had warned him, that one day his blasphemy would find its end. It seemed that they were wrong. They would find their end.  
  
He waited amongst them, saw their grim, strained faces, their lost hope. He saw the Army of Lucifel, swarming across the horizon, filling the sky with blackness. He felt a cold, harsh wind blowing over the plain where the final battle of Heaven should take place. Silence settled over the world.  
  
And then Lucifer rose over his army. He was riding a horrifying beast : it had the wings of a bat, huge spans of thirty metres each, huge as a whole church, the colour of ashes, the scales of a snake, the eyes like burning coal. It shrieked, deafeningly, mocking the sound of the heavenly trumpets. It wings flapped like earthquakes. But above it all, a voice was heard, as clear as ice, as hard as stone.  
  
"I challenge you, Lord! I, Lucifer, the Morning Star, challenge you! Answer my call!"  
  
For seconds, everyone expected the holy light, the wrath of God, striking down as lightning from the darkened sky above. For minutes nothing was heard than the infernal flapping of the beasts wings. Then, slowly, a hollow laughter filled their ears. It made them shiver, made them wand to crouch in the dirt and cover their heads.  
  
"So this is your answer, Lord?" Lucifer called when he had finished laughing.  
  
"The Lord has nothing to say to us, anymore! God is dead!"  
  
Like thunderstorm, the call rose from his army.  
  
"God is dead!" And they charged forward. The army of heaven was frozen. God had left them. But still, when the first rebellious ones arrived, they fought, with the power and despair of those who have already lost. Asmodeus watched it all, staying where it was save, his eyes searching the ranks of both armies for a glimpse of red. He saw it. It was actually several glimpses of red.  
  
A spot of screams and terror was Astaroth, who had spread his wings, wings of tainted ink-black and in his hands swung a terrible, two-headed axe, drenched in blood from head to toe, the blood of Angels. So he had already chosen his side.  
  
Another spot of red destruction was on the far side of the battle. An inferno of flames burned the rebellious Angels alive, raging amidst it was a small, white-winged red-haired Angel. Ah, Michael, the brother of Lucifel, finally had decided where he stood. He had come to kill the one who had shared blood and life with him.  
  
And then he saw her. She was riding a parody of a horse, with bat's wings similar to Lucifer's dragon, and hooves of burning coal and the fangs of a wolf. It spread havoc everywhere it came, and she did too, commanding a whole little army of those small but deadly beasts Lucifer had created, and she was casting black magic, the astral power of darkness. She laughed, so brightly that it was making everyone run who saw her, and she had spread her own, beautiful and almost black wings. Her red hair was ablaze. "For my Lord," she sang. "For Lucifer!"  
  
Her smile... her ecstatic eyes... he knew why he loved her. She was a creature like a double-edged sword. One blade was a she-devil even more corrupt than him, beautifully dangerous and obscene, the other blade was a little, merrily smiling girl, fragile and vulnerable. He would forever adore her.  
  
The battle raged, clearly in favour of Lucifer's Angels in the beginning, but soon it changed. It was Michael, and Michael alone, who saved the forces of heaven, his own power just as terrible and destructive as his invincible brother's.  
  
The forces of the Morning Star were decimated rapidly. Soon all of the low creatures were slain, leaving only a few higher ranking rebels. Astaroth still fought in a bloodthirsty rage, his feet slithering in all the blood he had spilt.  
  
Asmodeus spotted other Angels among them now, that he hadn't noticed before. Beelzebub, he registered with surprise. Mammon. Barbelo. Many of his friends. He smiled a grim smile. They were forced to back away, now, they were cornered, circled. And finally, the battle nearly came to a halt. Both Armies were breathless, bleeding, nearly erased.  
  
The clatter of weapons became quieter. Angels and Angels looked at each other wearily, for the last time. Asmodeus watched them. Threw a careful glance at Lucifer, who was smiling, still, victorious. Then he went and took the leads of a horse held ready by a young boy. He mounted it, and rode through the panting lines of Heaven's army, slowly, deliberately nearing the highest of Angel's, the high court, his fellows, his critics.  
  
He smirked. He lifted his hat.  
  
"I'm sorry. But I believe this to be a matter of style."  
  
" Fare well, my heavenly brothers..."  
  
And he spurred his horse, and laughingly rode across the battlefield, changing sides and his heart was light. They, were loosing, his side, but he was happy. He spread his wings and watched as they were blackening slowly. Why hadn't they before? His heart had always been here...  
  
"Welcome! You're late!" Belial called from where she was casting curses still, keeping Heaven at a distance. She could not lift her hat, she had lost it some time ago. But he could.  
  
"I'm just fashionably late, my love," he called back.  
  
But then the final battle really began. It was a fight just between the two brothers. Michael and Lucifel. It was terrible and strange and surprisingly short. And to everyone's astonishment, Michael won. He raised his sword to kill his treacherous brother. Lucifel smiled. The sword crashed down. In the matter of a second the forces of Heaven and the few remaining of Lucifer gasped.  
  
The sword had been buried in the body of a woman. She fell and died without a word. Her significance was lost to everyone, only that she had been an Angel of Heaven and she had saved the Arch-enemy's life. And Michael's face twisted in agony. He cried. Yells, unintelligible, repelled by Lucifer's icy facade. The sword, raised again, slashing down. Lucifel had been hit. Lucifel fell, without struggle. His face was smiling still, as the earth opened beneath him and he fell, deeper and deeper into the darkness.  
  
Belial's eyes went wide and heard her sob, choked and quiet, and then she jumped of her horse and went after him, hurling herself into the darkness. He was frozen, unable to do anything. Why had she... she who never would love anyone truly...  
  
But the earth didn't stop devouring them. The flame sword was raised again and again in desperate fury, the small Angel who carried it was at the edge of madness.  
  
"Brother!" he yelled.  
  
"Lucifel!"  
  
And they fell, into the darkness.  
  
They fell. 


End file.
